


Hunter's Moon

by Roquelaure



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Gay sex will happen just not yet, Idiots in Love, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective!Geralt, Sad!Jaskier, Smut, Soft!Geralt, Supposedly 'unrequited' love, Will get gayer, Yennefer and Jaskier are frenemies, Yennefer is over all this shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roquelaure/pseuds/Roquelaure
Summary: 'Words are weapons'. Jaskier's known this for a number of years but it took Geralt of Rivia - the man he'd do anything for to finally drive the lesson home.A sorta kinda fix it fic holding not only gay romance and eventual smut but also how I envision events might unfold if Witchers were allowed happy endings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 91
Kudos: 606





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so...a few confessions to make before we kick this off, dear reader. I am a relatively new fan of the Witcher franchise. I had been told the books and games were good but aggressively hetero and so I tended to stay away. My sister however convinced me to watch the show with her and I was hooked by these two knuckleheads. This is the first fandom I've decided to write something for in probably about 10 years so the hinges might be a little rusty at the start. Also, just for clarification - this fic is based entirely off of the show as well as what I have researched on the wiki, apologies for any mangled canon - I will endeavour to keep as close as I can.

Jaskier was not a particularly graceful man when it came to matters of reconciling with the truth. He’d lived too long on the backs of fancy and tall-tales to have anything other than a scandalously brief affair with all things realistic. The whiskey burned the back of his throat at each pull from the bottle, head tucked down against the cavern of his own poor posture - hood drawn up tight over his features - anything to keep from being recognized while he wallowed in his own self-pity. _You should’ve known better; you stupid, fucking fool_. He kept replaying the scene in his head, over and over and over again. 

‘If fate could grant me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!’ That had been the part that had stung the worst. Geralt had always been surly, his fuse eternally clipped just a little too short; but Jaskier knew the complicated history Geralt claimed with fate. He knew more than Geralt realized. Just because he hadn’t always said something didn’t mean he hadn’t been watching. There were things that didn’t belong in songs, as hard as it was to imagine. 

“Thought I’d find you here.” He looked up, eyes going wide at the sudden intrusion into his own private moping. She stood maybe five feet away, farther down the bar - plucking an ale from the outstretched grip of the innkeeper - wrapped in the same coat as she’d left in. 

“And too think I thought I’d outsmarted you all.” His voice was bitter, ashes at the bottom of a pipe too long lit. 

“You’re too smart to think that.” She grinned, pulling one of the bar-stools closer to where he sat, setting herself down without invitation. Jaskier knew she didn’t need one. “Not only are you too smart to think you’ve outwitted me, but I also know you didn’t particularly want too. Misery loves company and the misery of a bard? Well...even more so, love.” 

“Y’know, if it wasn’t for you - I’d still be with him.” 

She scoffed, lifting the mug to her lips; “And what would that do for you? So you’d be traveling around with the famed ‘White Wolf’. Made famous by you, I might add. If it had just been Geralt on his own, his only notable deed would’ve been a mass murder in the streets of Blaviken. He owes you more than he knows - the fact he can walk into a tavern and be met with only scornful gazes and heated words rather than steel speaks to that. How many coins do you think people have tossed him?” It would’ve been a lie if Jaskier had tried to keep a smile from appearing across his face. 

“I hope enough so that he’s at least warm…” 

“You’re fucking pathetic.” He chuckled at her tone, leaning back in his own chair - letting the hood fall back from his ears - drinking deep of his own liquor. “Perhaps. But at least I’m not hiding what I feel. Unlike some _other_ individuals spouting off around here.” He said. 

“You think I didn’t want it to be real? You think if I could change the way it all went, I wouldn’t? I really did care for him, Jaskier. I may not have had as much time to care for him the way you did, but when I realized I did - at least I made a move. No one can say we failed from lack of effort. You never told him your feelings, you never bared anything to him. Don’t pretend we’re the same, _bard_.” A nerve had been struck apparently. Jaskier was good at that, almost as good as striking notes on his lute. “And yet...here we both are, o’ Lady of Vengerberg.” 

Silence stretched for a few moments, both of them drinking their drinks - trying desperately to not really look at each other the same way one avoided a mirror when they didn’t want to see their reflection. “Why are you here? Why did you come to look for me? Why not just leave me to my grief so that I can move the fuck on?” 

“Because despite it all, I still care for that fucking witcher and I wanted to tell you something.” Shifting her whole posture, Jaskier watched as she faced him - swallowing the knot at the back of his throat. “What he and I had wasn’t real. It was a facsimile created by the Djinn. Perhaps the genie used something that was dormant to spring it all to life, perhaps...a number of different things happened but one thing that most certainly did happen is that he broke my trust. He lied. Maybe by omission but it was still a lie, Jaskier. I won’t ever be with a liar. But what’s between you both? _That’s_ real. It’s as real as an organ, meaty and dark inside both of you, I _swear_ it.” Jaskier nodded once, chuckling to himself as he lifted the glass to his lips a final time - swallowing the last of his whiskey and pushing himself to his feet. 

“Well...your concern is duly noted, Yennefer. I’ll make sure to tell Geralt how he feels the next time I see him…” He watched her deflate, a sick sense of satisfaction overcoming him as she just shook her head at his obvious ‘stubbornness’. “Or...rather, I will hide my head in shame and try to sneak out as quickly as possible because I’m not like you. Most people in fact - aren’t _anything_ like you, Yennefer. You can sit there and say these things because you’re strong, because you have _magic_ to back you up. You could call Geralt on his bullshit and what could he do to you? He was madly in love with you, you had him wrapped around your finger tighter than strings on my lute. He _hates_ me. You stormed off too quickly to hear it all, I suppose.” Jaskier was trying to keep the pain from slipping into his voice and he dug his nails into the bed of his palm as he failed. He watched as those pretty, violet eyes turned towards him - wide as a tear ran down his cheek. 

“I’m the source of all his troubles, all his aches and pains. Whenever he found himself in a pile of shit, I was the one shoveling it. That’s a direct quote by the way. He doesn’t love me, Yennefer. He never did. I was a burden to him, much the same as I was too everyone else. Even back in school in Oxenfurt. Every beating...every fucking _caning_ …” He shook his head, trying everything in his power to disperse the memory. Finally, he met her gaze and wondered if Geralt had felt so stuck to his own shadow everytime he looked into Yennefer’s eyes. “I will always love him, you’re not wrong there. But that’s where it ends, Yennfer. That’s where it has to end. I won’t be the source of someone’s pain. I’ve done that, I’ve been there and I’m not going back. I’ll sing my heartache out over the next couple of towns and I’ll...survive, I suppose. Good day, o’ Lady of Vengerberg.” He heard her get up, a breath drawn in as if to say something. Jaskier was already out the door.


	2. 'People can be monsters too.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do be warned that this chapter does contain a scene involving rape.

“I thought I asked you to rouse the fuckin’ place?” Jaskier huffed at the innkeeper as he sat down at the bar for a moment; plucking the flagon from where he’d left it - raising it to his lips and drinking deep of potentially the  _ shittiest  _ ale he’d endured in a long while. “C’mon bard, unhappy customers leads to less drinkin’!” Wiping his mouth on the edge of his embroidered sleeve, Jaskier nodded but once. 

“I understand that, my good sir and I’m doing the best I can but there’s only so much cheer one can bring to a town beset by such tragedy.” 

The other man scoffed, showing yellowed teeth; “Well you’re lovelorn _shite_ certainly ain’t helpin’.” Finishing off the last of his mug, Jaskier held the flagon out to the man - eyeing the barrel of continuously shitty ale behind him. With little more than a glare, the innkeeper took the cup - turning to refill it as Jaskier swung around on the stool to look at the crowd. Nary a dry eye in the place and that was only counting those who weren’t clutched by the claws of fervent prayer. It wasn’t all that long ago that Jaskier would’ve jumped at a chance like this with Geralt. A chance to do some good. The poor town had barely anything of note and bandits had taken up residence in the nearby wood. A few men had gone out, attempting to either negotiate or turn them off. It apparently did not go well. Turning his head, he glanced at an old woman - huddling near the fire; a few family and friends gathered around her.  _ Freshly widowed _ . 

The flagon was slammed down next to him, freshly filled but Jaskier was already up on his feet - strumming his lute as he made his way over to the grieving woman. Using the edge of his boot, he slid a chair over near her - the sound of it’s legs scraping across the spirit sodden floor causing her to turn her tear-stricken gaze to him. “Is there anything I can play for you, madam?” He asked, setting himself down across from her. Perhaps he could not lift the spirits of the room but perhaps that was not what was needed. Jaskier knew from more than his fair share of first hand experiences that music could offer solace in even the worst of times. That it never guilted you for your grief, no matter how small or how large. 

Her breath was drawn in, raggedly short - her voice thick. “I...I don’t know any…” He nodded, stopping her there. “How about I just play you something then?” And with that, he began to strum - notes falling from deft fingers in sweet, mournful rhythms. Normally, Jaskier would’ve sang - added an embellishment but as the music began to fill the space - he watched with careful eyes as the folks went from crying into their ales to fond, whispered remembrances. Tear-slicked faces turned from sorrow to succor as the towns’ folk began to chuckle at good memories of the deceased. Standing - Jaskier carried on the tune, walking about the tavern - letting the song fill him down to his bones. This was where life got easy...where he found little trouble in forgetting that he wasn’t wanted by the one person he desperately wanted back. 

As he finished the tune - he gave a little spin and bow and a moderate amount of applause filled the tavern. Warmth spread across his form, cheeks flushing. Jaskier was used to being booed or causing a bawdy ruckus. He wasn’t overly familiar with genuine gratitude. Turning back to the innkeeper, he gave a wink - receiving an exasperated chuckle in return. “Alright, alright then - fair enough.” 

Jaskier jumped at his chance; “So how about that room then, huh? Room and board? I’m only asking for one night, sir.” Clasping his hands together in his best impression to look as pathetic as Yennefer said he was, the innkeeper raised his hands and relented. “Fine, fine...one night and a hot meal on the house  _ but that’s it _ .” Jaskier nearly sighed in relief; “Thank you so much, good sir. I promise that if I end up staying longer, I’ll pay my way.” The man nodded in response; “Yes, you will be paying. I want that known.” 

“It most definitely is, thank you again.” Jaskier bowed his head in supplicative gratitude and watched as the innkeeper retreated to the nearby kitchen, hopefully scrounging up some dinner for the poor bard. As he returned with a bowlful of chicken and wine - Jaskier was on his second spoonful when the lantern light coming in through the windows was disturbed by a shape passing by. He wasn’t the only one to notice either, a few people craning their heads to look outside at this newcomer. Already a murmuring began of bandits riding into town but Jaskier knew better - his blood running cold as ice. He knew that horse and shapely rider anywhere. 

Pulling his hood over his features - the innkeeper sparing him a glance; the door opened after a few minutes and Geralt strode inside, silent, head bowed low as he made his way over to the bar.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ . “One room is all.” His voice was gruff and thick with disuse. Jaskier wondered if he’d spoken at all for the last week outside of the occasional whisper to Roach. 

“Ain’t got no more.” The innkeeper replied; “But I may have work for you, witcher.” 

“What’s the beast?” 

“Ain’t no beast.” He continued; “Bandits out in the woods; we’ve lost six men so far, fathers and husbands.” 

Geralt grunted in response, lifting a hand to wipe at his chin; “Sounds like a problem for your local constable. I’m no assassin.” 

“We ain’t got a constable out here, witcher. The town can put together some gold and I can maybe set something up for you in the cellar, give you some feed for your horse.” Jaskier looked up finally, steeling himself; Yennefer’s words reeling in his mind. ‘You’re fucking pathetic’.  _ Fuck you too, Yen _ .

“Give him my room, I just realized I need to be pressing on to the next town - I have an appointment.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Geralt’s gaze snap to him - eyes wide with surprise and...something else Jaskier couldn’t quite place.  _ He’s not relieved, it’s just another trick of the firelight on those pretty eyes _ . “J...Jas.” Jaskier was already on his feet - lute slung over one shoulder and heading for the door.  _ Did he just stutter _ ?  _ Did I actually catch fucking Geralt of fucking Rivia off guard _ ? It was only when he reached the knob did he spare a glance back.  _ As beautiful as ever _ . “You should help them, Geralt.” He nodded at all the town’s folk; “People can be monsters too.” He didn’t wait for a reply.

* * *

Mud up to his ankles and the rain coming down was next to freezing. Soaked to his bones, Jaskier held a mild hatred for just about everything.  _ Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut _ ?  _ Let him sleep out in the rain. Let him freeze for a night. Why did I do that?  _ But Jaskier knew the reason why. He knew it was because the very thought of Geralt suffering more than he already had cut too deep and it  _ infuriated  _ the bard. Why should he care about that asshole’s needs? Why did he have to reveal himself at all? He’d been the one to throw Jaskier away, not the other way around. 

‘But what’s between you both? That’s real. It’s as real as an organ, meaty and dark inside both of you, I swear it.’  _ Oh, what does she know? She threw us all away.  _

On and on this spiraling thought process went until Jaskier finally looked up and no longer recognized the road he was walking. Turning to look behind him, he could vaguely make out what looked like firelight in the distance through the pouring rain but it was impossible to tell how far he’d made it. Swallowing the lump at the back of his throat, he turned back to face the road - tall, dark oak trees lining it for as far as he could see. Deep shadows resisted the moon’s glow and his mind instantly recalled all of the horrors Geralt had taught him about. The monsters that live in the shadows, that stalk from the darkness. An idle thought passed through his mind - if the bandits were as afraid as he suddenly was. 

Hiking his pack up a little higher, he started forward again. The fine silks and satins he’d treasured so much stuck to his skin in all the wrong places and though he kept the cloak wrapped tightly around him - it did little to quell the driving storm.  _ I’ll just walk until I find the next town. Can’t be too terribly far and it’s not like I’d be able to sleep out here in this anyway. Just keep walking, keep your head down and keep quiet. You’re not important. Not anymore. _

That lasted maybe ten minutes before the stifling thrum of raindrops began to boil Jaskier’s nerves. Slowly, with no rhythm to guide him - Jaskier simply began to hum. A simple tune - a basic melody, the sort of lullaby a poor woman sings to her sick children. Slowly yet surely, words were formed and phrases added. It wasn’t a happy song. 

“Cold blows the wind to my true love and gently falls the ra…” Clipping his note, Jaskier fell silent as sound stirred around. Somewhere beyond the whirling rain, he could hear it - the sound of twigs breaking underneath heavy footfalls. Ice ran down his spine and his hand found the grip of the dagger Geralt had given to him ages ago. His mouth went dry as four men stepped out from behind the trees, soaked through their hides and leathers - weapons gripped in their hands. “Well, well, well...don’t stop on our account. Sing for us, little man. Sing about your broken heart.” The man that spoke was easily head and shoulders taller than Jaskier, a heavy mining pick held between thick, brutish fingers. “I...I…” Jaskier stammered, desperate for any kind of plan or excuse, something to offer them. “I don’t have any money, I’m just on my way out of here. Please, you can check my pack, I’ve just got my instrument…” His plea was cut short by the howling laughter of the men around him. He watched as they began to surround him, but fear was like serpent’s venom - making muscles rigid and paralyzing him. 

“I said _sing_.” 

The bard gritting his teeth against the frozen rain and wind; “In this weather? My voice would be carried off on the wind, wouldn’t want you to be disappointed with my performance!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Jaskier wished he could reach out and snatch them back - his tone biting, mocking. He balked as the men hefted their weapons. “Okay, okay - no need, no need.” Wetting his lips, he began to sing - the words tremoring, terror mutating the notes into tone-deaf warbling. The laughter began again and the large one took a few steps forward. “Such a pretty voice. Who broke your heart, little man? Want me to find her? Want me to kill her for you?” Jaskier shivered, no longer feeling the cold.  _ Lie, lie, lie, lie _ . “Well - she’s a mage. A mage of incredible renown and skill. She could turn us all to dust in an instant with a snap of her fingers, best not be tempting fate. That’s what I always say!” The men drew closer and Jaskier paled under their glare. 

“You know, you’re _awfully_ pretty.” 

“Am I?” Stammering, Jaskier gripped his knife tighter beneath the cloak as the bigger man loomed over him. His gaze flicked down to the miner’s pick held in his grasp.  _ He could cleave me in twain _ . “I could fix you right up, y’know. Make you forget all about her.” 

He returned his eyes to the other man’s; “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m good on my own.” 

“Take off your shirt.” 

Jaskier felt tears of fear prick at the edge of his eyes; “What do you…” The words were cut off as the man’s massive hand moved with surprising dexterity. Jaskier tried to scream before the finger’s closed around his throat. Ripping the knife from its sheath; he drove it towards the man’s neck but in the same instant - his wrist was caught with the man’s other hand. Pain exploded as he felt bones crunch under his calloused touch, the dagger slipping helplessly to the ground. All at once, Jaskier’s world was upended as the bandit slammed him into the ground. Mud splattered over his clothes, into his hair and face. Breathing was impossible as he struggled against the hand clenching around his windpipe. Kicking feebly, he managed to land one solid blow to the other’s groin but received only a brutal slap across the face - hard enough for stars to burst behind closed eyes. The hand against his throat let up enough for him to scream for help but his voice versus the pounding storm was an unfair battle. He felt his trousers roughly pulled down as he was flipped over face first into the mud. He could see the other bandits jeering and howling and he fought against the hands as they came crashing down against his wrists, forcing him into submission. He screamed again, terror making his voice higher than before but it only earned more laughs. “He even sounds like a woman!”

Heavy knees roughly shoved his legs apart from behind and he screamed again, wildly thrashing against the man holding him down. Lashing out, he bit hard into the forearm of the man - teeth sinking deep into hard muscle. Blood filled his mouth and the man screamed in pain, ripping his arm away and punching Jaskier in the back of the head with all his might. Face slamming into the mud, Jaskier sobbed as he felt something stiff probe at him from behind. “Help!  _ Geralt _ !” It was instinct. The only instinct he had left to scream for the witcher. 

It was at that moment that something changed. As if Jaskier’s cry had summoned him from the depths of the night itself, he gasped in pain as he was roughly entered despite his thrashes just as Geralt rode into view - Roach’s hooves churning the mud beneath them. Immediately, the bandit’s friends turned against him - crossbows and short swords drawn against the Witcher. “Off him and I might make it quick, you _swine_!” His voice was a scream against the howling wind, deep and terrifying. Before any of them could react, Jaskier saw the sign for Igni flash from Geralt’s outstretched hand and he immediately pushed himself as far into the mud as he could. The sudden stench of roasting hair assaulted him as the man atop him was roughly thrown back, crashing into the mud, squealing. Rolling, Jaskier desperately crawled away. He heard the familiar slide of Geralt’s sword leaving it’s sheath and the clash of steel against steel. Blood struck his back as he crawled and a hideous scream rent the air as an arm followed. Placing his arms over his head, he tried to keep low, to keep from getting stabbed and sliced, stepped on or trampled. 

A sickening crunch sounded and a body dropped next to him but at the same moment, he was roughly hauled up - the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils as the large man pulled him against his chest, a human shield from the witcher’s onslaught. Jaskier froze as his own mud-coated knife came to rest at the hollow of his throat. 

“Off, witcher. Get gone and I won’t gut him here and now.” Geralt circled amongst the remains of the other bandits - every movement calculated, languid yet lithe.  _ A wolf in the hunt _ . He bared his teeth at the man and Jaskier wondered if this was what it was like to be on the opposite end of one of Geralt’s contracts. If this terror was felt by fiends and ghouls alike. 

He was relieved it was directed behind him. Craning his head just slightly, he caught a glimpse of the man’s face - half-charred and blackened flesh clinging to the remains of his skull. He was  _ cooked _ , Jaskier could’ve peeled the meat off as if from a suckling pig. “Let him go, fucking wretch or I swear…” Swallowing, Jaskier felt the tip of the knife dig slightly harder into his flesh. “Or you’ll _what_ , witcher? His life’s in my hands, you’ve got no cards to play.” Doubt crossed Geralt’s honeyed eyes and for a moment, Jaskier’s terror evaporated.  _ I can be brave too _ . Slamming his foot down as hard as he was able against the man’s toes, he surged forward - screaming as the knife made contact with his back. Flames erupted through the air and everything went dreadfully silent. Too silent. Jaskier had always hated the silence. It cloyed, it struggled. It drove one mad if one let it. 

Warmth spread across his back. He could hear shouts and screaming - the squelch of horse hooves in the mud drawing closer. Closing his eyes, he sighed as warm arms wrapped around him. He was so very tired. Perhaps sleeping in the rain wouldn’t be so bad. “...Not like this…” Geralt’s voice was both too close and too far and Jaskier whimpered at the smell of smoke rising from burning skin. There was pain, distant, stinging. Too hot, too hot. 

He was being cradled against something solid, he opened his eyes and looked into Geralt’s and all his worry vanished in that moment.  _ I could die here, I suppose _ . Jaskier didn’t struggle against the sleep.


	3. Trick of the firelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank all of you who've left comments and kudos on this fic, it means a lot. I'm so delighted that people are reading and enjoying, I'd really forgotten what a pleasure fic writing can be.

Each and every raindrop felt like a little knife slicing through him - ice spreading across him, growing through skin and sinew like some sort of deadening rot. He could feel the hooves of the horse pounding beneath him, a rhythmic sort of lullaby nearly succeeding in driving back to that dark place but it was the smell that kept his mind sharp. Skin and sweat, leather and old, dried blood. Pain ebbed him back towards unconsciousness and he leaned heavily into the solid chest cradling him. “Ge..Geralt…?” His voice was little more than a croaked whisper. “Hold on - we’re almost there.” Jaskier leaned into the voice, into the reverberation through Geralt’s chest and it only felt like a minute before there were other voices - loud and strangled. Heat graced his skin and he could hear the scraping of wooden tables across a floor. 

Something hard met him and Geralt’s warm arms left him. Eyes rocketing open - Jaskier tried to struggle;  _ screaming  _ when he felt hands pulling open his shirt - pulling it off his shoulders, back protesting most violently. ‘Take off your shirt.’ Lashing out, he kicked with all his might but the blow connected with nothing. Howling with rage and terror - he saw nothing despite his eyes wide open; he saw nothing but that hand closing in around his throat and driving him to the ground. 

‘Can’t stitch him til he’s still, witcher.’

He saw nothing until those eyes were in front of him. The tips of calloused fingers coming to rest against the edge of his jaw. “You have to let us help you.” Geralt’s voice was calm - strained...yet calm. “Drink, Jaskier. Just do it.” A vial was raised to his lips and it stank; acrid and  _ sharp _ . “Geralt…” He groaned, tears slipping into his voice, confusion making everything a blurred mess. “ _ Drink _ .” Jaskier did as he was told and before the breath left through his mouth - the darkness rose up to meet him. 

* * *

The second time Jaskier awoke - there was no grace or fogged memories. Sensation rushed into the corner of every limb and his eyes shot open. Immediately he turned off the side of the bed - guts churning as he retched into a bucket already place there. Tremors pulverized his body as he emptied the contents of his stomach but even that wasn’t enough and dry heaves began to take their place.  Eyes bleary and baleful , he gazed about the room.  _ Alone. He’s gone. He lied to me just like he lied to Yennefer, he’s gone again. Alone.  _ Tears gathered and spilled down his cheeks as he heaved into the bucket yet again - hearing pounding footfalls coming up the stairs, some measure of muffled shouting somewhere below him. The door slammed in as Geralt was suddenly there, kneeling beside him - a gentle hand on his back, steadying the bucket with the other. “Where...where did you  _ go _ ?” Jaskier sobbed in between the bouts of vomit, nothing but bile and acid burning his throat. Geralt said nothing, his hand just rubbing a soothing circle in between Jaskier’s shoulderblades, a steaming bowl of broth set aside. 

Finally, after what felt like years the heaves began to slow and Jaskier - utterly exhausted - fell back against the pillow he’d woken again; groaning when he felt just how sweat-soaked it had become. “Where…? What the  _ fuck  _ is going on, Geralt?” He demanded, hoping he sounded strong and not like the sickly child he felt. The witcher’s somber gaze told him he was not successful. “I had to tend to you, Jas.” His hoarse, gruff tone replied.

“ _ Jaskier _ , now.” He hated how he could recognize the pain that flashed across those pretty, amber eyes. Geralt continued, undeterred; “You were...attacked. Do you remember that? They…” He let the sentence trail off and Jaskier closed his eyes against the sudden flood of memory; more tears welling. “He tried to rape me...he  _ did _ …” Silence grew between them until the pain began to spring from his back. What started as a dull ache when he awoke has been steadily climbing, growing and growing with every breath. Groaning, Jaskier tried to adjust himself but Geralt - seeing him in obvious discomfort carefully lifted him forward, tossing aside the sweaty, soiled pillow and pulling his from the other side of the bed over; settling it so Jaskier could lean back on it. “The stomach upset is from the potion...so sorry about that…” 

“Potion?” 

“One of mine. It acts like a...numbing agent for humans in small doses. You needed some, you kept crying out while they were trying to do the stitching...I think I may have given you too much…” Jaskier watched as Geralt looked down at his own hands, fingers folded together. “What  _ the fuck _ were you thinking?” The bard closed his eyes, trying to blink back the sudden, instinctual tears.  _ I’m so tired of crying _ . “I was thinking-” Geralt cut him off, voice harsh; “You weren’t  _ thinking _ at all, Jaskier. You  _ knew  _ those men were somewhere out in those woods. You  _ knew  _ it was dangerous.” Geralt all but  _ hissed  _ the words at Jaskier - before picking up the bowl of broth and gathering a spoonful, holding it out to the bard’s lips. Jaskier only eyed the broth, stomach twisting at the mere thought of food. “I  _ swear  _ if you don’t…” He didn’t let Geralt finish his threat, leaning forward as much as he could to take the spoon in his mouth. As Geralt lowered the spoon back to the bowl - Jaskier spoke. “I was thinking that if I was quick enough, I could make it past them and be out of this place and away from you…” 

“Jas-” He cut Geralt off; “I was thinking that if I got away quick enough;” Jaskier said, “I could pretend that I never saw you walk into the tavern in the first place.” 

Geralt went still at the admission, spoon dragging along the rim of the bowl. “You put yourself in danger because of me? You got ra…” He didn’t finish the thought and Jaskier hated himself right then. “That’s not a fair thing to say to yourself, Geralt.” His voice was a whisper; “I wasn’t attacked because of  _ you _ ; I was attacked because I was stupid and I made the wrong decision at the wrong time.” Geralt once again lifted the spoon to his lips and Jaskier took another mouthful, wincing at the overly salted broth. “I should’ve been there to protect you. I never should’ve left”

“But are you saying that because you truly regret it or because I was raped in the middle of the road and you saw it?” It was an unfair, cruel question but Jaskier needed it. He needed to know if it was genuine or if all this was just regret and guilt settling in for a long visit. 

“I regretted it the moment it happened.”  _ Then why did you let me leave _ ? Jaskier knew that question didn’t have an easy answer and so he settled on not asking it - instead just turning to gaze at the fire in the hearth, at the nearby table and the floor coated with all manner of witcher supplies.  _ He really struggled to keep me going, didn’t he _ ? “How close was I…?” His voice barely above a whisper. Running a hand through his hair, Geralt sat on the bed next to him - head hanging low. “... _ Close _ . You lost a  _ lot  _ of blood.” For as much as he wanted to rage, to scream and cry - Jaskier felt a sharp tenderness spike into his heart. Despite it all, despite everything - he knew if he’d died on Geralt, the poor man never would’ve forgiven himself. “I’m sorry I put myself in danger.” 

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t be in the same room as me.” 

Jaskier scoffed; “I’m sorry I never said it when it could’ve changed things.” 

“Said what, Jaskier?” 

“That-”  _ I’m in love with you _ \- “You’re the closest thing I have to a friend. You’re...you’re my best friend and that I love you dearly.” ‘You’re fucking pathetic.’  _ Get the fuck out of my godsdamned head, Yennefer!  _ Geralt’s eyes closed momentarily and Jaskier for a moment thought he saw a flash of disappointment across the other’s face.  _ Trick of the firelight _ . “I...am not good with this shit, you know that. I hope you’ll come with me again.” 

Jaskier swallowed, a knot the size of a pinecone forming at the back of his throat. When Geralt looked at him again, Jaskier gave him a nod. “Of course, someone has to sing about all this right? That way it’s just a story, it’s just a fancy and it can’t hurt either of us anymore.” 

The witcher chuckled; “I don’t think constant reminders are the way to go here, Jas...Jaskier.” 

“Jas is fine...I know two syllables are a lot for you.”

“Fucker.” He smirked, eyes wandering. 

“Did you happen to save my lute?” When Geralt nodded at him, a weight Jaskier didn’t know he was carrying lifted off of his shoulders. “It’s downstairs, it got covered in mud and wet on the inside - the innkeeper said he’d clean it out and dry it off with some old woolens. He said the village owed you and your lute.” Jaskier smiled at that, a small chuckle bubbling past his lips. 

“So...where to?” 

“You’re resting for a few more days, you’re in no condition to travel.” Geralt’s tone took on a firm timbre. It was nice to know someone was trying to care for Jaskier’s health at least. 

“I meant after that.” 

“I was probably...gonna keep looking for work and hea-” Jaskier cut him off suddenly; “Yennefer. We need to find Yennefer, Geralt.” When the other man turned to look back at him, eyes wary - Jaskier only offered him as much a smile as he could conjure. 

“Why?” 

“Just trust me.”


	4. 'Perhaps you do have a heart after all?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love and support! It truly means so, so much to me. This chapter splits POV for the first time. Not sure how many times I'm gonna be doing that in this story but it felt right.

A fortnight had passed and while Jaskier mended physically - his sleep was restless with nightmares. His wrist was the first thing to heal - the town’s local medicine woman wrapping it with poultices and bandages. The wound across his back would take longer but the stitches held against the thrashing he did in his sleep before Geralt shook him awake - exhaustion etched on his own face as he held Jaskier through the worst of the terrors. It was another guilt to add to the list for Jaskier, another reason why Geralt was most likely better off without him. The bard wasn’t of the mind to inform the witcher of such truths however. He was enjoying his time with Geralt too much to spoil it with anything like that. In the early morning light - as the sun was rising and filtered through the silver mane of hair Geralt wore like a crown, it was easy to believe that it was real. That the beautiful man lying next to him on the too-small cot loved him back just as much. A beautiful delusion, worthy of song. Jaskier was already filing away ideas and metaphors.

When he shifted in bed, trying to turn towards the witcher - he must’ve jostled him because Geralt shot awake immediately, almost instinctively reaching over to Jaskier - a hand coming to his side and the other to his shoulder. “I’m okay! I’m okay…” Jaskier chuckled, placing a hand over the one splayed across his ribs. 

“Sorry...thought it was another night terror.” 

“I’m sorry they keep happening.” 

“Don’t be, doesn’t bother me.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier smiled at him as the witcher turned his head to let his eyes roam over his form before he sat up, scratching at his neck. “What are they...about?” His voice was small, quiet, almost uncertain. Jaskier wondered if it was Geralt’s witcher training kicking in; a sudden wondrence if Jaskier’s dreams had been cursed or touched by magic in some way. 

“Well…” He began, settling his head into the depths of his pillow a little more; “They were originally about the - what happened. Like I was there again, it all happening over and over. Sometimes my mind would...distort it, I suppose? Like in one nightmare, you’d never come. In another - it was happening to someone else and I couldn’t help them. But lately - they’ve been about everything. Last night’s was...my mother of all things.” Jaskier shifted slightly, watching as Geralt’s brows knit together in confusion. He had never told Geralt much about his parents or...really anything about his life before becoming a bard. 

“One would think a mother would be a pleasant memory.” Geralt said.

“Is yours?” At the witcher’s silence, Jaskier simply nodded once. “Yeah...not for us.” 

* * *

If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say that Roach was downright  _ pleased _ to see him. Her hooves stamping into the still-soft dirt of the stable - a seemingly happy whicker coming from her nose as they both approached her. Long gone were Jaskier’s fabulous garments he’d become known for and perhaps the simple inclusion of drab colors bettered the mare’s attitude towards him. His silks and satins had either been ruined beyond salvation by the rain or mud or they’d been rent apart during...  _ You’ll be back to your old self soon enough _ . Jaskier prayed that he wasn’t lying to himself. 

Crossing his arms, he watched with a small smile as Geralt went to his horse - feeding her a carrot for her troubles in the rain and whispering a few words to her flickering ear. If Jaskier hadn’t had such a keen ear for music - he was sure he would’ve missed the witcher saying; ‘Look, we just got him back, be nice.’ Jaskier pretended not to notice, turning to look back at the inn - at the small, ramshackle building that had served as refuge for such a hard few days. “We’ll come back through here at some point, right?” He called over his shoulder as Geralt was beginning to lead Roach from the stable - retightening a few straps here or there. “If it serves, I don’t see why not.” Geralt replied. Glancing back at him, Jaskier smiled again. “I think I’d like to. Bring some real coin for that poor inn. A repayment, I suppose.” He felt Geralt before he saw him - the other man coming to stand beside him; leather gloved hand reaching out and taking his for a moment to grab his attention.

“When we come this far north again, we can make it a point. But we’re headed south for now. If you wanna find Yennefer, there’s not much point in staying in Caingorn.” Jaskier nodded to what the other man was saying, gazing at the dirty windows and flaking paint. “I owe this place a lot, I feel like…” he said; “Almost as much as I owe you, Geralt.” 

“You don’t owe me.” 

“But I do. You took care of me. You protected me and helped stitch me up. You’re a witcher, not a nursemaid - I should’ve been stronger sooner.” That hand that still gripped his squeezed a little too tight. “If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have.” Jaskier smiled at the words, nodding. He knew that. Somewhere deep down, he knew that Geralt meant it, that if he truly didn’t care - he would’ve left when he had the chance. “So...where too first?” 

* * *

The wine was too dry for Yennefer’s tastes. Growing up with nothing to drink of the stuff - she found dessert wines to be her preference. Light and sweet, with a honeyed quality - she liked her men and women to be much the same. Perhaps that was why she’d struck up such a fast friendship with Triss. Or it could be simply that Yennefer wasn’t much for friends and Triss was just the right amount of insistent that it didn’t particularly matter. “You do know what you’re doing, right?” The beautiful mage in question asked from behind Yennefer - sprawled out lazily across a fainting couch, bedecked in furs; her own wine glass tragically empty. Yennefer turned, smiling and handed over her own glass, disinterested in the vintage. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, love.” 

“The witcher and the bard, of course. One can only pretend at destiny’s job for so long, my dear.” Triss replied, one manicured brow arching perfectly. “Who said I was pretending. You should’ve seen it, Triss. The way Jaskier looked at him when they thought Borch had died, it was sweet enough to curdle milk. He doesn’t love me - he might  _ think  _ he does, but it’s just the Djinn’s distortions to reality robbing him of his choice, you know that. I can fix it, I know I can. I know I can set them on the right course.” Yennefer’s voice went well beyond confidant and straight into stubbornness. 

“And how can you be so sure that this is the right course? You’re playing with fire and  _ not _ in the fun way.” 

“Because despite it all, despite how he lied to me - I want Geralt to have some happiness in his life.” It was a truth Yennefer wasn’t entirely sure felt right. Though to people like them - the truth usually didn’t. 

“Perhaps you do have a heart after all?” Mock offense plastered on her face, she glared at Triss before her lips quirked into a smile and she shook her head. “That wasn’t the part I had removed, you’re correct.” Two throaty laughs filled the space for a few moments before silence once again rushed in, flooding the room. 

“You ready? For tomorrow? For this...battle?” Triss asked after a couple of minutes, sipping the wine. Yennefer shrugged; “I’m not sure. Destiny’s been fickle lately.” 


	5. 'Don't leave me again...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, everyone! I'm so happy people are having a good time reading this fic, I am certainly having a wonderful time writing it!

Every breath thundered through him, blood ringing in his ears. He was sure he’d pulled every muscle in his right side but still, Jaskier drove the dagger into the creature - it’s flailing caught beneath his greater body-weight. It was not a graceful killing. Geralt could slay a ghoul with one hand tied behind his back - his blade making quick work of the creatures. Jaskier? Not so much. The ghoul had charged him, striking up from the ground. Geralt already had several upon him, distracting him and Jaskier wasn’t going to risk putting him in further danger.  _ Kill or be killed _ . He tightened his grip on the creature’s throat - it’s hoarse shriek choked off by the entirety of the bard’s bodyweight pressing down. He drove the blade into its chest, again and again and again. Rotting, long-coagulated blood flowed like sap from a maple tree - coating his hands at each stab, the silver causing wisps of smoke to rise from what remained of the bastard’s flesh. The grip of the silvered knife was wrapped in wire, to keep it from slipping in a sweaty or bloody grasp and Jaskier took full advantage of it. 

“I will not...be... _ fucking _ eaten!” Jaskier screamed in the ghoul’s face, ripping the dagger from between the ribs and plunging the blade into its eyesocket, every ounce of bodily force he had left thrown into the blow. Bone cracked and splintered as the blade slashed through whatever remained of the creature’s brain and Jaskier threw himself back - more snarls and shrieks echoing from where Geralt cut them down, one and one again. His back met a tree and his breath was coming too fast. Gripping onto his chest, Jaskier tried to still his fear. Eyes searching about, he caught sight of the merchant they were trying to protect, huddled underneath his cart. Horror blossomed across his face as one of the ghouls began to stalk towards the man, a low - almost childlike - hum beginning in the back of the monstrosity’s throat. Geralt spun and slashed, severing the head of one of the creatures before Jaskier screamed to him - pointing towards the merchant. He knew Geralt was the only one who could get there in time. The witcher dashed, silver blade arcing through the air and the creature fell underneath the blow - spine rent like little more than wet paper. 

All at once, the air grew still. The electricity that had sparked every movement seemed to evaporate in the wake of the final kill. Jaskier watched as every tensed muscle across Geralt’s form slowly relaxed as he looked about - eyes carefully watching for any more threats, any more terrors in the dark. The stench wafting from the necrophages was fetid, heavy and nearly sulphurous but as Jaskier pushed himself to his feet - shaking but unbowed; he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he might. It meant victory after all. “You can come out…” Geralt’s voice was rough, still he spun - watching and waiting. The merchant - Yurga, Jaskier believed he’d called himself - pulled himself out from underneath the cart, clothes stained with mud and blood.  _ We’ve all been there, my friend _ . Jaskier thought bitterly to himself, taking a few steps towards the ghoul he’d slain.  _ Perhaps I should be a witcher? How many others can say they’ve killed a ghoul _ ? 

“Witcher?” Yurga asked, drawing closer to Geralt - who still seemed on edge. “I hear somethi…” He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before another ghoul burst from the ground - gangrenous claws ripping into the flesh of his sword-arm, teeth gouging into the meat of his thigh. Jaskier had never truly heard Geralt  _ scream _ before then. Nearly a decade together and it was a sound he wasn’t even sure the other man could make. The silver sword slipped from his grasp as the claws dug down to the bone and Jaskier watched with horror as it fell, striking into the bloodied dirt.  _ No sword. He has no fucking sword!  _ At first, it was terror that colored him before desperation kicked in. Jaskier took off, bolting straight towards the creature - bending down only to snatch the dagger from the other ghoul’s head as he went.  _ Not him, not him, not him, not him. Not like this, not now. Please, please, please. _

Jaskier bodily tackled the creature, knife slicing deep into the throat of it - ichor spraying across his tunic as he pulled it from the beast, raising it over his head and plunging it into its face, again and again and again. Each blow pulverized the muscles of his arms, sending pained shockwaves scattering through his flesh. Jaskier didn’t even notice the tears streaming from his eyes till the ghoul’s head was little more than red jelly and even then - he kept going, knife eventually just slicing into gore-strewn soil. “Ja... _ Jaskier… _ ” The voice was close yet sounded distant to the bard’s ears, so enraptured with his brutal task. He didn’t stop until he felt an arm wrap around his chest, Geralt pulling him back, away from the body. Dagger dropping from his grasp, he turned - rage replaced with worry. “Geralt? Geralt, are you okay?” Blood sluiced down the witcher’s arm from where the claws had rent his flesh. The bite was what concerned him however. He knew the deadly effects of a ghoul’s bite. Geralt had driven that lesson home dozens of times, every time they came up as a contract. Every time they even got close to them. It was then that Jaskier realized Geralt must’ve been worried for him all those times. Worried how fragile he was compared to the famed ‘White Wolf’. 

“I...no…” Geralt answered after a moment, his breathing erratic and raw. “We have to get him out of here! We have to get him to a healer now!” Jaskier screamed at the merchant who was already hitching his horse back to his cart - the animal frightened and uncooperative. Roach trotted over, nudging Geralt with her nose but Jaskier raised a hand, petting across her neck. “He’s gonna be fine, he’s gonna be okay, he has to be.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to calm Roach or himself. “Closest healer I can think of is at the border of Brugge! Sodden Hill is overrun, haven’t you lot heard about the battle? Mages everywhere!” Yurga shouted, tying a strap tight. 

Jaskier cursed under his breath, Geralt’s eyes beginning to flutter. He was already pale, his skin going clammy. “Jaskier...my bag…” The words were weak but Jaskier nodded, hands shaking as he rushed to Roach’s side, pulling down the pack where Geralt kept all his potions. “Bla...black liquid, cork stopper…” He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t wonder. Tears dripped onto the bottle as he hauled it from it’s compartment - ripping the stopper out and slipping one hand beneath Geralt’s shoulders. Lifting him, he placed the vial to his lips. “Drink...c’mon, Geralt, drink.” Jaskier wasn’t sure he recognized his own voice. Emptying the vial down Geralt’s throat, Yurga approached. “C’mon now lad, let’s get him in the back.” 

“He won’t make it to Brugge, we have to think of something else.” 

The merchant stopped, staring at Jaskier for a moment - seemingly trying to decide on something; “My house. My wife might be able to help…” 

* * *

Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Yurga’s farmstead, Geralt carried in the back of his cart and Jaskier leading Roach. She refused to pass ahead, instead staying slightly behind the cart where she could see Geralt. Jaskier didn’t mind it so much, in fact he preferred it as well. Troubled sleep gave way to delusions and he could hear Geralt talking to people who weren’t there. Every minute spent on the road only tightened his heart furter.  _ He can’t die on me. Not like this. Not like this.  _ He hated how powerless he felt. ‘You’re fucking pathetic.’ Eyes growing misty with tears, Jaskier shook his head - dispersing them. He wasn’t crying. Crying meant he’d given up and he wasn’t going to give up on Geralt even if it killed him too. 

Yurga’s home was modest, candlelight streaming out from a few of the windows. As he pulled the cart around the side - Jaskier noted a woman and their son if resemblance was to be trusted exiting the house. “There’s a man, Zola! He’s wounded!” The merchant called out to his wife who immediately stopped, turning and telling her son to fetch her supplies. “He’s not just wounded, he was bitten by a ghoul.” Jaskier corrected the man, walking forward - his fists balled in fear at his sides. The woman - Zola, the man had called her - nodded; “I can disinfect his wounds. Not much I can do for any infection already in his blood but witchers, they got that slowed heart’s beat right? Maybe he’ll make it on that.” She said, brushing past to examine Geralt. A shadow passed by one of the windows, one of much smaller stature than the boy. Jaskier wondered if they also had a daughter. 

Once the son arrived, they went about tending to Geralt as best as possible. They washed his wounds with boiling wine and Jaskier took care in wrapped his arm with liniment-soaked bandages, carefully tying a knot near the wrist. Geralt was past anything even near conscious, occasionally whispering a name or a word. Eventually, the work was done and Zola stood up. “That’s all I can do, other than that - he’ll have to recover on his own.” She wiped a hand across her brow, her own hand shaking slightly. Jaskier knew this wasn’t easy on either of them. “Come inside, I’ll get you something to eat.” Jaskier was already shaking his head. 

“I...I can’t leave him, I’m sorry. I’ll be fine, thank you.” She looked between them for a moment, her eyes softening when she saw the terror blatantly smeared across Jaskier’s face. “I understand, how about I at least get you some bread?” 

“That’d be great, thank you so much for everything, Zola.” She merely inclined her head before taking her leave and Jaskier went back to wiping the sweat from Geralt’s brow, his head lolled towards him on the thin, cot pillow. Bread was brought, day-old but Jaskier was glad for it regardless as he tore into it. 

Resting his head against Geralt’s chest - he listened to his lungs and heartbeat.  _ Still strong, still slow _ . It was an easy lullaby to drift off too. 

* * *

It was either very late or very early when Jaskier awoke. The night was black as pitch - a light snow whirling just outside the reach of candelight. Geralt didn’t look better. Skin pale and a light sheen of sweat clang to him. His breathing was ragged. “Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, gently nudging him - fear gripping at his heart. “Geralt? Geralt, please? Is there any other potion? Anything else I can do?” His voice was edging on frantic and relief washed through him when Geralt’s eyes fluttered open; those pretty, amber pools turning to look at him. He felt fingers entwine with his and Jaskier looked down at their hands, smiling even as tears welled and ran down his cheeks. “Jas...why are you crying?” Geralt asked just before the convulsions hit him. Hand going vice-tight, Jaskier was on his feet - nearly sobbing as he held Geralt’s shoulder down, hugging him around the chest - trying to keep him from hurting himself until it ended, until he was able to ride through it. “Please... _ please _ , don’t go! Please, not like this. Don’t leave me again…”

“Off him, boy.” It was not a familiar voice. Wheeling, Jaskier pulled the dagger from its sheath as a red-robed woman walked in past the barn doors, snow-borne wind stirring long, coppery hair. “Who the  _ fuck _ are you?” Jaskier  _ snarled _ ; sounding closer to the man laying at his side then his own, cheery self.  _ Some enemy? Some scorned lover come to take revenge when he’s down? I’ll kill her, I’ll kill anyone. _ The knife twisted in his grip as she took several steps closer, lifting a hand. Without his own volition, Jaskier was tossed aside like little more than a sack of flour, colliding with the wall. Not hard enough to hurt or injure, but hard enough that the dagger was knocked from his grip.  _ Magic _ . Jaskier was no longer so sure he could kill anyone. “I’m the one who’s going to save him. Now hold him down by the shoulders, I’ll have to draw the poison from his veins but I have to catch it first.” She said, the force that had thrown him aside lessening. He had no choice. He had no option. Standing - he eyed her warily before moving to Geralt’s shoulders, pressing down and holding him as still as he could. 

Placing a hand on his chest, he watched as the woman closed her eyes - fingertips trailing over his skin. Geralt let out a howl as she twisted her fingers just slightly, his chest rising up off the bed. “Almost…” She hissed, dragging her touch over his breastbone - trailing up his neck. “There you are…” It was barely a whisper before she clenched her fingers shut - drawing them up and over his lips. Jaskier shook as thick, red blood past from Geralt’s mouth - hovering in the air before she tossed it away with a flick of her fingers, the blood splattering against a bale of hay. “Burn that when you get the chance, he’ll wake by morning.” Such simple instructions. Jaskier watched as she turned to leave before he stepped around the cot, reaching a hand out. “Wait! Who...who are you? Why did you come here, why did you help?” The woman stopped, red cloak stirring in the wind. “I...am his mother. I do not leave my children to die of such things.” 

“His...his  _ mother _ ?”  _ Geralt was born of a mage _ ? “You can’t leave - he’ll want to speak with you, you can’t go, I can’t let you leave.” She turned, eyes dark. 

“I’ve killed for lesser offenses, boy. My part in this story is small. Destiny has bigger plans. Stay with him, be there when he wakes in the morning.  _ Lie _ ...if you want, if you think it’ll make things easier. Or don’t. But be there, he’ll need you either way.” Jaskier watched as she stepped out into the snow and night swallowed her up. Turning back to Geralt, he climbed into the bed next to him - pulling the witcher close to him and tucking the furs ever tighter around them both. He’d be there. Even if he didn’t trust everything she said, he’d always be there. 


	6. 'Well fuck.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late compared to my normal update schedule but we're getting into the juicy bits now! Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments, they really do mean so much to me - I love getting to hear everyone's opinions on my fic, it really just makes my day. Updated the tags because of this chapter as well. Rating will increased soonish...? We'll see.

The morning came cold and gray - frost clinging to the window panes. Jaskier was the first to awaken, bolting upright when he heard the door leading into the barn unlock - the aching creak of old wood screeching throughout. Fingers grasped onto the edge of the dagger, kept in its sheath against him all night. _Just in case_. The door edged open just enough for a young girl to slip in - clad in a blue, woolen cloak - shining, blonde hair crowned a face that was strewn with caution. “Ahh...and what is it I can do for you?” Jaskier asked, his grip slackening on the knife but not quite leaving it. Monsters abounded, as did strange women with magical powers and the God’s only knew how many Nilfgaardians had managed to claw their way this far north. One couldn’t be too careful. 

“Zola asked me if I’d come check on you…” She whispered, her eyes turning to the mound of furs and blankets piled next to him. Glancing down, Jaskier smiled at the sight of Geralt’s sleeping face. One of the few times the witcher actually looked peaceful. Turning his gaze back to the girl, he took in her features, how familiar they were…

“Zola? Not ‘mother’?” Jaskier asked, his tone light - conversational. “My mother’s dead.” Her reply was flat - empty of all emotion; if there had been tears at one point, they had long since dried. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Could I ask your name then?” 

“Fiona.” The answer was too quick - _rehearsed_ . If Jaskier knew one thing in all the world - it was the quality of another’s performance. “Well... _Fiona_ -” He smirked; “I think we’re just fine. Only thing I can think of is maybe some clean water if it’s not too much trouble?” Her gaze left his eyes, moving to drift over the man-shaped lump. “No trouble - I’ll be right back with it.” And sure enough she was - a pail of iced over water from the well in grip; she left it at the barn door and Jaskier politely shooed her away as quietly as he could, taking a hefty drink before gathering and soaking a cloth. The grime clinging to Geralt’s brow came off easily under Jaskier’s gentle touch. It was only when he lowered the rag to Geralt’s jaw - wiping at his chin and neck did he awake. At first - there was anger burning before it settled, fading away as he shifted; looking up at Jaskier with wide eyes. “What...What the fuck happened?” 

“You were attacked by a ghoul, it bit you.” 

“I was? Where is it?” 

“Dead.” 

Jaskier felt a twinge of pride as the witcher’s gaze flitted to his own. “Did...you?” 

“I did. I killed two ghouls in total. I’m obviously a prime candidate for witchering. I bet I can learn some your little magical tricks and then sing ghouls to cinders.” He chuckled, brushing the hair from Geralt’s forehead. “I don’t remember coming here.” 

“You wouldn’t, you were unconscious. I gave you a potion that you screamed for me to give you and it slowed the poison down I suppose. Combined with your already slowed pulse and I think it was the only reason you made it here.” Jaskier’s hand trembled, hating how his voice began to shake and crack. “I had never seen you take a wound like that. I was terrified the entire time, I’ll have you know.” Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave his and Jaskier felt a gentle squeeze as the witcher’s hand enclosed his own. 

“How did you tend the bite?” 

“I…” ‘Lie...if you want.’ Jaskier chewed on his bottom lip, shaking his head. _He deserves to know._ “I didn’t. It wasn’t me. Well...it was in a physical sense. The lady of the house, her name is Zola - she’s the wife of the merchant we saved, he brought us here. Her and I tended to the flesh, cleaned out the bite and scratches and bandaged you up. As for the poison in your blood...a woman came and drew it from you. She knew you, Geralt. She knew who you were.” Confusion draped itself across Geralt’s eyes like a veil. Jaskier could already hear the question before he spoke it. 

“Yen…?”

“No - she claimed to be...to be your mother.” Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure of the reaction he was expecting. He did however know that he expected _something_. Anything other than the sudden, stony silence he received as Geralt finally broke his gaze, staring a hole into the side of the barn. “I can’t prove if she was. It could’ve been someone or something else...some kind of trick, I don’t know…” Geralt shook his head, a mirthless, hateful chuckle coming to his lips. “No...no, it was her.” 

Silence fell and Jaskier pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins. “She drew it from you, you...you _roiled_. But it worked, it flowed out of your mouth and she cast it aside.” 

At the simple nod he received, Jaskier sighed. “We’re safe though. We’re away from the Nilfgaardian forces, I believe. Zola and Yurga claimed this place was too far away to be of any use sacking. We can keep on south once your…” He was cut off but Geralt turning back to look at him, gaze silent and frighteningly intense. 

“I...I heard you. I heard you, Jaskier. It’s faint but I heard you...I heard you crying for me again.” Jaskier said nothing, looking down at his toes wiggling in the furs. ‘You’re fucking pathetic’. He swallowed the vicious words, shaking his head. “Yeah...I cried for you.” 

“Why?”

A smile quirked the bard’s lips; “Isn’t it obvious by this point? Because...I’m in love with you. I...am not entirely certain when it happened, when I came to fall in love with you but it was like having my throat cut, just that fast.” He was shaking down to his very core - heartbeat ringing in his ears, a cold chill beginning to creep down the length of his spine. _What have I done_? A million different scenarios played throughout his overactive imagination. None of them however consisted of Geralt’s hand gripping his wrist. None of them consisted of him being pulled down atop of the witcher. None of them consisted of how soft Geralt’s lips would feel against his own. He had expected them to be rougher, he expected the hand scathing it’s nails across his back to be crueler, more intense. And yet, for all his expectations - Jaskier didn’t mind being wrong. He drank in Geralt’s breath, relishing every second because he didn’t know if it was pity or experimentation but he wouldn’t waste a drop. It was Geralt who finally pulled back, the tips of his fingers coming to brush along the edge of Jaskier’s jaw. “You could’ve told me sooner…” 

“When? At what point, Geralt? When you love someone, you don’t try to make their life harder. You were happy with Yennefer, you were happy without me…” He hated the way his voice cracked; “I wasn’t going to sour any of it.” 

Jaskier had to admit, to Geralt’s credit - he didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t try to brush it away with a ‘hmm’ or just more stony, uncaring silence. He watched as the witcher looked down, he watched as he turned his hands over - eyes roaming over pale, scarred palms. “What her and I had...it was brief and - fuck, it was _passionate_ but she was right in what she said. It wasn’t real. None of it was _real_. But you...you’re real, I’ve always known that. I’ve always trusted in that. You two are the only people that ever get me to talk so much but…” Geralt shook his head, an incredulous smirk appearing; “I guess I don’t mind talking to you. I don’t mind your singing or your poetry or your fucking ridiculous clothes. I...I couldn’t sleep after you left. You know you snore?” Jaskier’s eyes were glazed with a strange sort of emotion when Geralt’s gaze met his. Jaskier shook his head in mock offense; “I do not, that’s a bloody lie.” 

“You snore...and it’s what I fall asleep listening to every night and when it wasn’t there - I felt like I’d carved away a piece of myself. You’re always the one to pull me back, you’re always the one to be there with a smile after the _worst_ of hunts and I took all of it for granted and...and I shouldn’t have, Jaskier.” He had never heard the witcher say so much in so little time but it was plain to see the emotions switching across those golden eyes as quick as notes in a song. He didn’t dare break this moment of candid confession.

“I loved Yennefer and then I lost Yennefer. I lost you...and then I realized that I loved you more.” Lifting a finger, Jaskier brushed back some of the hair that had fallen into Geralt’s face before leaning in, pressing his lips against the other man’s once more. “I would say we should make up for lost time but we’re in a barn in a war-torn forest and you nearly died so I think that should probably wait but...but I want you to realize something, Geralt. I want you to take this little piece of information and tuck it into your heart because I mean it. I really, truly, deeply mean it.” Jaskier said, still idling his fingers through the silver stands, smiling when Geralt leaned in - eyes suddenly curious. 

Letting his forehead rest against Geralt’s, Jaskier chuckled just barely, his voice a sultry whisper; “I really don’t fucking _snore_ .” The gruff grunt he got in response was only matched by his own yelp as Geralt pulled him down onto the cot’s thin mattress - all lips and lovebites and roaming hands. Kissed practically breathless - Jaskier groaned in delight as Geralt began to kiss his way down the length of the bard’s neck; doing his damndest to stifle the mild panic that rose from having a man atop him so quickly. _It's alright, you wanted this. This is good. This is pure._ Head partially sliding off the side of the mattress, Jaskier let his eyes open and nearly _shrieked_ when he caught the curious eyes of Fiona staring in through one of the barn’s windows. At his shout and the sudden realization that she’d been caught - the girl was going to turn to bolt but it was at that point that Geralt looked up. 

Jaskier watched as the two met each other’s gaze. He watched indignation, frustration - perhaps even a little rage wash away from Geralt’s features as he stared at the girl. Letting his head fall back to stare at Fiona, even upside down as he was - Jaskier saw the same strange, _knowing_ gaze reflected back. Attempting to carefully extract himself from underneath Geralt - he ended mostly as a heap on the floor before he stood - righting his clothes and looking between the both of them. 

“Geralt?” 

“It’s her.” 

“It’s who?” Jaskier looked back at the girl; “You know her?” 

“She’s...she’s the child. That’s the Child Surprise, Jaskier. That’s her.” As if the words broke some kind of spell - the girl ran from the window. Head rolled back on his shoulders, Jaskier stared at the ceiling. “Well _fuck_.” 


	7. 'I fear people more.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay once again! Life's gotten a little hectic but I'm making it a point to try to finish this fic off soon. Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, they mean so much. I'm always so delighted to get to read them.

Tossing a boot in Geralt’s general direction - Jaskier knew he didn’t have time to spare waiting for the other man to get dressed and so immediately started out after the girl. The brief moments she had to gain any sort of lead on him she hadn’t used wisely. Jaskier caught a glimpse of her stomping into the surrounding trees - roughly shoving a branch out of the way, trudging through mud and moss. “Muddy tracks! Hurry!” He called over his shoulder to Geralt, jogging to at least try to catch up with her. When he broke the treeline, he realized that Fiona or whatever her true name was wasn’t attempting to run. She had taken up residence, seated underneath an oak tree - tucked inside a cradle of exposed roots. Knees pulled up to her chest, she pressed her forehead to her palms - Jaskier was sure he could hear light sniffling. “Fiona...is everything alright?” He took a cautious step towards her, holding both hands up in supplication. Anything to show the poor thing that he held no intention of harming her. “My name’s not really Fiona,” She whispered, looking up at him; “It’s Cirilla.” 

Jaskier nodded once; “Pavetta’s daughter...your grandmother was Queen Calanthe, I’m so sorry about what happened.” Kneeling, he held a hand out to her - trying to beckon her closer. A twig snapped under his boot as Geralt stepped up behind Jaskier - eyes wide. Once again that same look seemed to cross over both of them and Jaskier stepped out of the way, unsure of what exactly was taking place. “The girl in the forest…” Geralt’s voice was barely even a whisper. “It’s you. You know me, Cirilla.” 

“Ciri.” She corrected, nodding as she pushed herself to her feet - clutching her woolen dress ever tighter around her shoulders. “You’re Geralt of Rivia, right?” At the witcher’s nod, she approached - watching her steps carefully. As she drew in close, Jaskier smiled to himself as Geralt held out his arms, as if to embrace the child. The smile vanished as she slapped him across the face with enough force to resound throughout the wood, several birds vacating the trees around them. “Where  _ were you _ ? I have been looking for you for what feels like an age! Do you know what has happened?  _ Do you _ ? Cintra is...my  _ home is burning _ .” Tears sprung to the girl’s eyes and she punched Geralt hard in the chest, his form unmoving - eyes downcast, looking at nothing but dirt. Jaskier kneeled beside her as she kept throwing feeble, angry punches against his chest, nearly screaming in her rage. Gripping her by the forearms, he pulled her against him - hugging Ciri as tight as he could as the tears overwhelmed her, spilling across his shoulder. “Shh, shh...Ciri, my dear…” Jaskier cooed, looking at Geralt with wide, pained eyes over her shoulder. The witcher gazed as her back, regret forming across every feature.  _ Oh no, we’re not doing this again _ . Jaskier decided. 

“We have been trying to find you, my dear.” He pulled her back to look at her; “It feels like we’ve been looking for years but the world is a  _ big place  _ and we didn’t even know where to start. We’ve found you know though, you’re safe now and we’re not going anywhere. We’ve got you,  _ we’ve got you _ .” He assured her, watching as the rage was replaced with grief. She glanced at Geralt, wiping at her nose - “I’m sorry I hit you.” 

“I’ve had worse.” He responded, trying his best to offer what he could of a smile. Jaskier appreciated the effort regardless of how ineffective it was. What did catch him off guard however was when Geralt reached out to her, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “How did you get here, Ciri? These aren’t your parents, what are you doing here?” Geralt asked after a moment. She stepped out of Jaskier’s hug, rubbing at her cheeks to clear away the tears still streaking them. 

“Zola found me at an encampment when they were on the way back. I said I was homeless and orphaned...not really a lie, I guess. She felt bad for me, took me in.” She said, looking between them; “How did you end up here?” 

“Yurga was being attacked by Ghouls and Geralt here let one of them bite him. He needed tending.” Jaskier filled in before Geralt had a chance to speak, smiling at the witcher when he received a honeyed glare. “Funny how things like that happen, huh?” 

“What were you doing in the barn?” She asked, calming the last of her sniffles, curiosity obviously taking over. Jaskier fumbled for a moment, attempting to come up with an answer meant for younger ears when Geralt looked her dead in the eye. “I was attempting to make love to the man that I love. My timing was bad.” Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat and he looked away, blush climbing up the length of his neck; burning underneath his skin, roaring through his veins.  _ That I love _ . How long had he been desperate to hear that Geralt loved him? How long had he dreamed of such a confession. 

“I’d say yeah...pretty bad.” She turned to look out towards the barn; “So does that mean I’m bound to both of you?” Jaskier looked between them, unsure of what it actually  _ did  _ mean. 

“No. By the Law of Surprise, you’re bound only to me and I to you, it would be unfair to assume anyone else be caught up in this, right Ciri?” Geralt’s gruff tone left little room for argument and yet - Jaskier argued, piping up. “By Law of Surprise, it’s just you two. However by Law of Jaskier, it’s all of us. I’m not going anywhere, not ever.” He smiled between them, holding out one hand to Ciri. “How about we go figure out something to eat for all of us and then we can bid Zola and Yurga farewell. We’re not done with all this quite just yet.” 

* * *

He finally had the captive audience he’d always wanted. Every story, every song, every dramatic reenactment - all met with adoration and attentiveness. Jaskier was skilled at bullshit - at turning monsters Geralt had slaughtered while practically asleep into intense, hard-hitting tales about heroism and battle prowess and the darkness that lurked in the shadows of the world. Ciri ate it all up, high atop Roach as they travelled along a cart path towards the nearest village Yurga had told them was still standing in the wake of the Nilfgaardians. Geralt - for what it was worth - actually played along where it mattered. ‘Hmm’ing and nodding at the appropriate moments when Ciri turned to him, as if seeking veracity to Jaskier’s claims. “I’m not sure I much like the sound of ghouls, I don’t think I’d like to meet one.” 

Geralt made a noise of agreement and Jaskier nodded; “Nor should you, sweet thing. All such beastly apparitions and fiends are incredibly dangerous, even the ones that Geralt can dispatch with a blindfold on. Just makes him all the braver.” He chuckled, earning a glare from the witcher. “Flatterer.” 

Jaskier smiled; “Perhaps, but you are brave - it’s not flattery to state the truth. If it was left up to my discretion, the second the ghouls started popping out of the ground, trying to eat Yurga, I would’ve left his sorry skin behind.” 

“Do monsters frighten you, Jaskier?” Ciri asked and the bard found himself stumbling for a step - glancing down and kicking a wayward stone off the path. “Well...of course, they do. Ghouls and werewolves and drowners. They’re all bloody terrifying when you’re facing one down but I would have to say that I fear people more.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Just...reasons. We’re almost there - see that, smoke in the distance.” Desperate for a change of topic, Jaskier nodded to the drifting smoke high in the sky. Quite a good bit of it too. “Must be a bon-fire? Wonder what they’re cooking.” 

“Jas…” Geralt’s voice was low and Jaskier glanced at him - eyes wide. The witcher had his head bowed, taking a long breath in and out - smelling the air. “That’s not a village…” Drawing his sword, he tightened his grip on Roach’s reins - guiding them closer to the treeline. Each step felt like an eternity and Jaskier’s palm was sweaty from how hard he gripped the handle of his dagger. The air grew heavy and hot, the stench he’d once thought to be roasted pork turned sour and sweet. The dirt beneath their feet turned to ash and the smoke was in their lungs as they passed through the last of the scorched oaks. 

_ Devastation _ .

“Wha...what happened?” Ciri asked, her voice a trembling mess. 

“This is what drove them back. This is why they retreated south…” Geralt whispered, looking out over the swath cut through the land. “But how?” 

Jaskier somehow - deep down in the pit of his bones - already knew the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be...substantial. For me, anyway. It also might be a reason to bump up the rating!


	8. 'It's a war story.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Finally got finished with this bad boy of a chapter. It's longer than what I usually post but it covers a lot. Also big thanks to everyone who's posted comments and given kudos, it means a lot! <3
> 
> (A quick warning on this chapter. There is both smut and a scene referencing child abuse and sexual abuse.)

She couldn’t get the ashes out from underneath her nails. No matter how hard she scrubbed - her palms red and angry, her knuckles skinned nearly to the bone - there still just so much  _ fucking  _ ash. One of the candle flames flickered, a moth skirting the edge and Yennefer screamed at the sudden shadow - her back crashing into the wall, sliding down - clutching soaked, bloody hands under her arms. A dirty inn in a dirty town in a dirty part of the world and she’d expected peace? A cockroach skittered over one of her toes and she pulled every limb she had in as close as she could, clamping her hands over her ears. Why were they still screaming? Why was the fire still burning? It was over. It was over.  _ It was over _ . The moth drew too close the flame, a wing nicked in the edge of heat and it was gone in a puff of cinder and ash. 

The burning was added to the stench that still swam in her nostrils. Her breath was coming too fast, the candle flickered - the flames growing higher, too high. Heat filled the space and she rested her forehead against her knees - willing her lungs to slow. But even closing her eyes brought her no respite, as behind her lids sat visions of molten armor fused to mortal skin, swords poised to strike dripping into slag. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a deer running - it’s ribcage exposed from the sudden blast. It was dead - the poor thing - yet adrenaline kept its scorched heart pumping. 

Looking up, her eyes once again found the clouded mirror - cracked, streaked with water that came from the ceiling every time it rained. Her reflection showed not her but that wound - that horrid, burning wound. Though Triss bore her burns, her scars, her horrors like the finest silks - Yennefer knew it was because of her that she gained a new one. Teeth clenched, she wished for a Djinn. For a chance to fix it all, for a chance to rewrite it  _ all _ .

The door shifted and Yennefer was on her feet - fingers crooked, ready for the kill as a woman strode in.  _ Red _ . Her hair, her robes - Yennefer thought maybe even her eyes but the candlelight was too dim to be certain.  _ Red like an apple from a tree _ . “Ah, there you are…” Yennefer would have been lying if she said the woman’s voice didn’t bring every hair on the back of her neck to a standing edge. “You must be very brave or very foolish.” 

“Likewise, dear girl.  _ Sit _ .” Control of her limbs was taken from her, backed against the wall - she slid down, struggling against whatever magic had taken her muscles but to no avail. The red woman stepped around her, leaning against the far wall - brushing the hair from her face. The curve of her jaw felt familiar. 

“I am Visenna.”

“Yennefer.” 

“I’m aware of who you are. A little girl charming your way across the world, into hearts, minds...and the pants of witchers apparently.” The sarcastically warm smile Visenna wore vanished.

Yennefer chuckled, shaking her head even as she tried to overcome the magic still binding her; “If you want Geralt of Rivia, he’s yours. I have no use for him. I doubt you’ll find little use of him either.” 

“Are you often insulting sons to their mother’s ear?” Yennefer’s blood ran cold. “M...mother?” 

“Indeed and I’m here to inform you that you’re meddling has gone according to plan. Bluster all you like but you care about my son, I can see it welling beneath your heart. You might not desire him but you want to see him happy and he the same for you. Now get up and get out of this shithole, you still have a part to play.” 

Rage began to bubble beneath the surface of Yennefer’s skin, spilling out in between the cracks. “Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me how  _ my _ life is supposed to go.” 

“I’m not. I’m just telling you where you need to be. Consider this a push in the right direction. Go north, one of the villages near the Brugge border in Temeria. Pick any of them...fate’s already decided, the details are irrelevant.” Visenna turned to leave, stepping over Yennefer’s still-huddled form - hand halfway to the door knob when she paused for a moment, turning to look her over. “You are worried you might hurt innocents?” 

Tears and rage and hate surged like a flood and tears slithered down Yennefer’s cheeks, offering the woman only a nod in response. “You see now why fire is a difficult weapon. How alike fire and sorcery are - how once the spark catches, the ignition is inevitable.” Another nod. Visenna continued; “Get ahold of yourself. You are Yennefer of Vengerberg. You are not a wallflower and you do not wilt in the heat. You want to see devastation?” The red woman chuckled, stepping out of the room; “Wait until you meet the girl…”

* * *

Every step echoed with the crunch of ashen bone beneath their feet. Roach was none too pleased to be in such a place, jerking against the reins and all but hissing at the stench of mutilated, burnt flesh. The ash sat like snow, nearly up to their ankles - drifting down from the sky like some bizarre blizzard. “Do you think any of them are alive?” Ciri asked, trying her best to skirt around the bodies, having abandoned riding on Roach once the horse began to fight Geralt’s control. Jaskier kept her hand firmly in his and he wanted to lie. He wanted to tell her that many had survived - that only Nilfgaardians laid beneath their heels. “I don’t think so. Not this time.” He whispered, pulling her closer to his side as they stepped around the blasted, skeletal remains of a warhorse. 

A bone cracked underneath her foot but to Ciri’s credit, she kept her eyes forward - only jostling a little bit against Jaskier’s ribs. “Geralt!” He called behind to the witcher; “Must we keep on? Where are we are we even headed?” 

“We need to get across the bridge and into Sodden keep! No way to go but forward, unless you’d like to scale a canyon!!” Geralt shouted over Roach’s feverish nickering as she kicked at rib cages and charred skulls. Her behaviour was new but not entirely undeserved. She wasn’t a warhorse, she wasn’t built for this sort of carnage. Looking back to the horizon, dancing with smoke - fanciful with drifting embers - Jaskier could make out the vague silhouette of the keep in the distance. “Do you think people survived  _ there _ ?” Ciri asked again, pressing herself closer to Jaskier’s side. He looked at the way the devastation was faced. The way it had fallen across the field more like an avalanche than a flood. It had an epicenter. 

The flame had a  _ source _ . 

“I sure hope so…” He whispered.

The walk was quiet - save for the cracks of flame and flesh. Roach began to calm as they climbed the hill where the flame had washed down from. The atmosphere was shifting - the ash-choked air becoming breathable once more. The gates had been destroyed - turning to little more than splinters and kindling. Roots had been grown up over the entrance - their burnt remains laying scattered amongst the dust. The walls of the courtyard were scarred - some sort of conflagration hot enough to melt even stone. Bodies had been aligned, sheets and tarps thrown over - dried blood soaking through. Jaskier moved to cover Ciri’s eyes as best he could, pulling her so that her head resting against his chest. “Don’t look.” 

Geralt grunted as he walked past, eyeing them before kneeling to examine one of the corpses - amber eyes gathering as much information as he could. “This one died of…”

“Dancing Star.” A woman appeared at the top of one of the ruined staircases, lifting her skirts as she wove her way down. Long, brunette hair - still wavy from spending too long in a tight braid drifted down past her shoulders, a medallion glinted in the fading light. “We crafted vials of Dancing Star - hoping it would be enough to drive off the invaders but alas - it was only partially effective. I am Tissaia De Vries, Rectress and Councilor of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. We have no need of your services at the moment, Geralt of Rivia - unless you’re willing to lend a hand in other areas, please be on your way.” 

Geralt stood from where he was still crouched over the body; hand resting on the grip of knife at his belt. “You know me?” 

“Only  _ of _ you. You and your dreadful affair with Yennefer - though she’d be loathe to ever admit such to me but her dreams are loud. But as I said - we have no monsters in need of slaying. As you can see, the Nilfgaardians are retreating for the moment. We won this fight.” Geralt took a step closer, his eyes narrowing and Jaskier finally let go of Ciri’s hand as he too closed in slightly. 

“You might’ve won this battle but at what cost?” Geralt asked.

“One we were prepared to pay.” Tissaia replied, lifting one brow before turning towards Jaskier. “Yennefer spoke of you before the battle began, you are Julian Pankratz? Called ‘Jaskier’ now, yes?” The bard felt a blush color his cheeks as Geralt turned to stare, surprise widening his eyes. “You have a different name?” 

“Not anymore.” 

“You told Yennefer before you told me?” 

“I didn’t.” Jaskier gritted out, fists balling at his sides. “For once, I’d like even just  _ one  _ of my private, fucking thoughts to remain such while in the presence of one of you  _ fucking mages _ !” He hadn’t expected the heat in his voice or the sudden anger that rushed through him. He wasn’t Julian anymore. Julian was dead. Dead and gone and  _ buried _ . 

“Regardless…” Tissaia cut in just as Geralt was about to open his mouth in retort; “Yennefer spoke highly of you, of your talent for music. I have an entire camp of people who just lost everything if not more. If you have it in you to ply your trade, I’d be most grateful. I can offer a little pay should you require.” 

Jaskier felt whatever indignation he had built up disintegrate. At the thought that he could help, even in the smallest of ways, he could help. He glanced at Geralt and then finally down to Ciri who was looking back up at him, a lopsided smile appearing on her face. “You do sing rather well! I’m sure you could do it, right Geralt?” She turned, eyeing the witcher. He glanced between the both of them before letting out a long breath; “Fine. We can stay for one or two nights but nothing more, Madam De Vries.” 

“Tissaia, if you will. Pleasantries are for pleasant times. Follow me, I’ll show you to the stables for your horse and then a spare room.” 

* * *

Jaskier spun, strumming the last few notes of his song - ending with a flourish and a bow to a great amount of applause echoing up around him. The fire burned brightly in the center of the camp, dozens of survivors and refugees gathered around - chanting and singing along to the songs the bard had brought. Even Tissaia, in her dour glory seemed pleased - working on her second mug of ale and clapping along with a few of the other survivors when they walked by. Even still - Jaskier couldn’t keep from glancing at Geralt every now and then; at the way he frowned into his beer - sitting aside on the back of a cart, quiet and alone. It felt too much like when Jaskier had first met him. He didn’t enjoy the feeling. Ciri had eventually gone to sit next to the witcher but even her presence did little to stir his spirits and he remained downcast even through Jaskier’s most rousing performance of Toss A Coin he’d pulled off yet. 

The night was dark above them, the moon shining and Jaskier took a final bow. “I do believe that’s all I have in me for this evening.” There was a chorus of ‘boos’ and ‘awws’ that rang out but Jaskier - smiling, inclined his head. “I will be back to sing tomorrow, I assure you all! I must rest my voice for now however, I’ll see you all soon.” Hiking his lute back up onto his shoulder - he made his way over to Geralt, crossing his arms in front of chest to help ward away some of the cold. “Everything alright over here?” Geralt only grunted in response, nodding once. The soft side Jaskier had grown accustomed too apparently evaporated. Ciri glared between them for a few moments before she waved a hand. “Tissaia! Is there any place where these two can take a bath? They absolutely  _ stink _ !” Jaskier lifted an eyebrow. “Oh we stink now, do we?” 

“Terribly. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep in the same room. I’d rather sleep with Roach!” Jaskier saw the slightest smile crack Geralt’s lips before he heard the crunching of gravel behind him. “Indeed there is. Your room inside? If you follow that hall all the way to end, the right chamber holds a bathing pool. Ask any of the servants King Foltest brought along with his army and I’m sure they’ll draw you one while you set your things down.” Tissaia responded, sipping at her ale. “And...Jaskier, thank you for the songs. How much do I owe you?” 

Jaskier turned, ridiculously pleased that someone was happy with his work; “I...I wouldn’t feel right accepting payment, Tissaia. Call it fair for letting us rest here?” The woman only smirked, nodding once. “Perhaps Yennefer was wrong about you. Not so spineless after all.” Jaskier huffed half a laugh when she began to walk away, back to the festivities. Glancing back at Geralt, Jaskier held out one hand. Geralt just eyed his fingers, not reaching up himself. “Come on...I’ll wash your hair for you.” His offer worked it’s charms. Geralt stood, nodding once and heading past him inside. Jaskier stared after him, a sigh leaving his lips. 

“He won’t be mad forever.” Ciri whispered, taking Jaskier’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’d be surprised how long he can hold a grudge, Ciri.” 

“Maybe it’s not a grudge. Maybe it’s just hurt feelings.”

* * *

The air was muggy and thick with steam when they stepped into the chamber - the servants giving a quick bow and exiting now that the small, stone pool was filled to the brim. Geralt turned away from Jaskier, walking several paces away to set down his weapons and start at the buckles to his armor. “Let me help.” Jaskier murmured, moving to stand behind the witcher - lifting his hands to one of the buckles under his arm. “I can do it myself.” 

“I know you can but why when I’m here.” Geralt jerked away at that, a glare creasing his brow and Jaskier sighed - holding his hands up in mock surrender and going about disrobing himself. Stepping down in the water, he groaned as the heat settled into his bones - muscles releasing some of their tension just at the touch of the water itself. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes - breathing in the steam and letting the heat work it’s wonders. The water disturbed beside him and he felt Geralt settle into the bath with a groan of his own and Jaskier peeked at eye open to look at the other man - stretched out and languid, every muscle and scar on display. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad, Ja…” Geralt let the sentence fall, shaking his head. “I don’t even...am I supposed to call you Julian now?” 

“No. I’m not Julian anymore, I’m Jaskier now. I’m  _ your  _ Jaskier.” He hated how pleading his voice sounded, he hated sounding so weak in front of Geralt. “Why change your name at all? And why not...why not ever tell me? In ten years, I never knew.” Geralt turned to stare, his head leaning against the edge of the bath. Jaskier could see the hurt behind the amber of Geralt’s eyes.  _ Why did you lie _ ?

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was important, Geralt. And...it’s…” He sighed, sitting forward in the bath - lifting a hand from the water to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “It’s a war story, Geralt. It’s a nasty, painful story with no silver lining. And it only ends when I meet you.” He glanced at Geralt, feeling tears prick at the edge of his eyes. “I was born Julian Pankrantz, I was. To a drunkard father who killed my mother when I was three years old. Slit her throat. He was paranoid - delusional. He thought she was cheating on him with the Viscount. He wasn’t executed for his crime however. He was of noble blood and it didn’t offend the king who was - himself - a greedy, vicious, hateful little man. He was sent away, too a mage who was supposedly going to cure him of his delusions.” Jaskier pawed gently at Geralt’s arm - silently asking him to shift. 

Geralt went along with the motion and Jaskier gathered some of the sweet, floral oils and soaps from a nearby basket, lathering his hands and beginning to work them into the silvery strands. “I grew up with my grandmother. It was she who taught me music. She was my mother’s mother and she was the  _ best _ , Geralt. I mean truly. I would’ve loved for Ciri to have met her. I lived with her until I was twelve. When my father came back from his stay with the mage. He was no different. Still drank, still hit me when no one was looking. Bombarded me with every slanderous name he could think of. But grandmother loved me. She baked me sweets and read to me by the fireplace. She corrected me when I fucked up a note on the family harpsichord not with slaps but with care. She  _ loved  _ me. She was the only one that I felt had ever  _ loved  _ me, Geralt.” He kneaded his fingers through the mats that had collected of dried blood and sweat, dirt and mud. “You don’t have to do this, Jaskier.” Geralt whispered but Jaskier shook his head. 

“I want to. I want you to know, you deserve to know.” 

“Not if it hurts.” 

“ _ Especially  _ if it hurts. I know your hurts, Geralt. It isn’t fair for me to keep away mine. That’s not what love is and you were right to be upset now shut up and let me talk.” He leaned over and kissed the witcher of the cheek. 

“Everything changed when I was sent to a musical conservatory six months or so later. I was too learn proper music, sight reading and all that. It was there that I met a boy. He was so stupidly beautiful to me, I loved him or so I thought. He was in the same class as me and I took it as a sign that I was to be his husband. We became fast friends and...and then I tried to kiss him and he punched me in the face and told the conservatory’s master. I was sent home to my father.” Jaskier felt his tone grow heavier, darker with each syllable. “My father beat  _ the hell _ out of me. I’m surprised he didn’t kill me then to be entirely honest.” He watched as Geralt’s fists clenched under the water and he could feel the tension rise in Geralt’s shoulders. Jaskier just kneaded his fingers into the muscles, trying to relax him through the rest of the ardorous tale. 

“My grandmother raged and screamed but she was old. There was little she could do at the time. But  _ that  _ changed one night when my father brought home some of his drunken friends. He told them that I was a degenerate. That I was some sort of mutant. That I wanted to be a whore. They took turns raping me that night, he was the last one to do it.” Geralt wheeled in his grasp, eyes blazing. “Shh...I’m not done.” Jaskier lifted a finger, placing it over Geralt’s lips. 

“When it was over. When it was said and done and I was lying there, bloody and crying - ribs broken, neck so bruised I thought I’d never sing again; when it was all over, my grandmother found me. She carried me to her bed and she told me she’d take care of it. She called a healer to examine me and that night she bashed his head in with a cast-iron skillet from the kitchen.” Hot tears slid down the length of Jaskier’s cheeks but he just wiped them away with a wet hand, smearing them across his face. 

“She was arrested and executed for her ‘crime’. For defending her grandson. She used to call me her little buttercup, her little ‘ _ Jaskier _ ’. So...you see, Julian Pankrantz has been dead for years, Geralt. There’s nothing of that little boy anymore, he died that night. So that...that is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew I’d see that look of pain in your eyes that I see right now.” Closing his eyes, Jaskier felt Geralt’s forehead rest against his. He felt arms encircle him and pull him tight against that taunt body, he felt lips brush against his cheek. “I am sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have pried...I shouldn’t ha…” Jaskier clipped his apology with a kiss, open-mouthed and wanting - tears still slipping from his eyes. “Shut up...please just shut up and let me have...let me have this, you.” 

Those pretty amber eyes bored a hole straight through him and Geralt closed the distance once again, kissing Jaskier hard and hiking him up against the edge of the bath. “Are you sure?” 

“Gods, Geralt  _ yes _ …” Jaskier chuckled through the tears, groaning at the hands roaming across his form. The mouth of the witcher travelled to his neck, kissing and biting at his pulse point before skirting along the edge of his collarbone. He lifted Jaskier out of the bath, setting him on the edge before his mouth enveloped him. Tossing his head back with a groan, Jaskier bit down on a knuckle - sighing into his own skin as Geralt’s tongue licked a stripe from the root of his cock to the crown. His free hand tangled in Geralt’s hair - freshly oiled and cleaned, one leg slung over the witcher’s shoulder as his chest rose and fell with each suckling movement. 

And yet it ended too soon, with Geralt pulling off him and placing another harsh kiss against his mouth - fluttering with want and desire. “You alright?” 

“Not if you don’t fuck me.” 

Geralt groaned at Jaskier’s request, kissing him again and again before pulling himself out of the bath, moving to his pack and retrieving some vial. “You keep that on-hand?” 

Geralt smirked; “Only when I knew I wanted you.” Jaskier bit his lip, feeling a blush rush over his cheeks. “And how long have you wanted me, sir witcher?”

“Too long.” Geralt’s lips were on him again and Jaskier let out a long moan from the delight of it, shivering when he felt Geralt’s oil-slick finger gently breach him. It stung at first but it was nothing Jaskier hadn’t expected and he soon found himself rocking into the motion of Geralt’s hand. “Let me…” Jaskier whispered when Geralt sat back, taking the oil from him and coating his palm liberally. Taking Geralt in hand - he stroked his cock, slathering him with the substance - earning the most delicious groans from the witcher. Biting down on his knuckle once more, Jaskier clenched his eyes at the first push - breathing deep and trying desperately to relax himself. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you…” Geralt whispered into his ear, wrapping Jaskier’s legs around his waist. “Tell me when you’re ready.” 

“ _ Fucking move _ …” Jaskier nearly cried, biting into Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher chuckled; “So needy.” He rocked his hips once, finally earning that cry echoing on Jaskier’s lips. Each push was bliss, Jaskier panting as he took him deeper and deeper - pleasure spiking through him. He’d enjoyed sex most of his life. With men and women but he’d never  _ loved  _ sex. 

It felt too soon when that clenching promise began in the pit of his stomach. “I’m close.” 

“Together then.” Geralt kissed him and Jaskier groaned into his mouth as he reached his peak. Two more thrusts and Geralt found his own, Jaskier clutching to him. Breath coming too fast, Geralt sat back in the bath as Jaskier lowered himself back into the water - making quick work of washing his release from his stomach. “Was that…” Geralt asked, still panting - a smile forming on his mouth. “It was everything I’d hoped for.” Jaskier replied, moving to press himself against Geralt’s side - letting his head rest in the crook of his neck. 

“It’s a shame he died before I could get my hands on him.” 

“Indeed, I would’ve loved to have seen it.” Jaskier wasn’t sure how he felt about the viciousness in his own voice. 

“Should we get back to Ciri?” 

Jaskier let out a noise of disinterest; “She was the one who said we  _ stank _ .” Geralt chuckled, kissing Jaskier on the forehead and the bard knew he wasn’t going to be moving for  _ hours _ .


End file.
